So How Irish Was Your Weekend?
Friday broke my heart.
Well the temperature soared to over ten degrees centigrade and melted my Irish-American dream house. Actually although it was a bit too fast for my liking, at times it was irrestible as it was like watching crochet in reverse. Yes crochet, not croquet.
Still, I didn’t trust the weather or those who forecast it with absolute certainty. We’d just spent a week of thaw at day and refreeze at night making it perfectly safe to go out anywhere by bicycle for the evening, but lethal to return home. Sliding on foot on Wednesday to go get some milk I watched cars slide on busy streets because presumably it never occurred to the city authorities that freezing thawing snow might mean some grit could be useful.
Living in a bi-state city region is like living in a simplistic fantasy novel or something written by Dr Seuss using only fifty words. The Missouri side is covered in haphazard blobs of snow and ice and slush mixed in with dirt, drugs and bodies, whereas the Kansas side looks like it never snowed at all - except for the landscaped commercial piles of ice punctuating the outer limits of over-sized car-parks.
In fairness I have seen two snow-ploughs on the Missouri side in the last two weeks - albeit little tiny ones. And both times they came after the snow had melted. They just pushed water around the streets. Which, useful as it may be for motorists, doesn’t do much for pedestrians.
So on a balmy Friday I negotiated melting icy footpaths and car-parks to race to the bus. Having no bus-fare meant having to go to the shops first to buy something which would make me fatter for the least amount of money and give me fare in time to make it to the terminus before the bus leaves - which, being the Midwest is always early.
In red LED letters the bus-stop said the bus departs in 2 minutes as it pulled away from the kerb. But the driver let me on, where I could see the clock on the bus agreed we were leaving two minutes early - so I started to dream of all the things I would now do with my life in these extra two minutes that God and the public transport authorities had gifted me.
With the ticket machine broken I was waved on for free, unnecessarily fatter and bus-fare in my pocket. This was good because I was going downtown to play a pub quiz, and it took the pressure off needing to win to obtain the bus-fare home. Who knew that the Education Programme of the European Union following Socrates II was called Erasmus? Not my team.
Saturday was freezing again so I put some pants on. Being a stereotype I painted some scenes of Ireland whilst listening to Raidió na Gaeltachta and then left the house destined to see some uilleann piping. Or so I thought. But with the Midwest rubbing off on me, I was early.
Five hours later I’m looking at green LED digits through a haze of whiskey. I think the numbers are on the inside of my eye-lids. They tell me it’s after nine o’clock, and I have no recollection of hearing any uilleann pipes. I am glad of the pants though.
On Sunday I brushed my tongue whilst listening to Ireland’s Today FM and the latest Take That single. Somehow they managed to reform not as themselves but as The Beatles. I guess if Robbie had rejoined them they would’ve reformed as Wings.
Meanwhile in Kansas City God said ha. Being more articulate than that he explained: You think yesterday was cold? Meet today. So I taught my dog the meaning of the words frigid, stupid, and absolutely not, before phoning a couple of counties in Ireland. Not only are computer calls free, but they come with video.
-It looks lovely there, said Kildare, perfect blue sky and sunshine
-It’s horrible, the computer says so.
-Is that a ring-fort in your garden? And why aren’t you wearing any pants?
Dublin then showed me the new car of An t-Eolaí and I’ve already forgotten what colour it is.
And so I missed all kinds of live Irish music this weekend, and didn’t find a single tennis ball. But on the plus side it does appear Take That are back for good, even if it does leave me yearning for Boyzone. I like a good yearn.
See Also:
• A Kansas City Phone Call to an Irish Mother
• How Do You Find America?
• An Irish Odyssey in Kansas City
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